Sunshine arrived on my porch today in the form of a box crammed full of these amazing jewels. Because isn’t  that what citrus is, bright, shiny orbs of amazing?  Much love to the fabulous Ms. Suzy Lorenzen for sending a piece of California to me for my birthday. How did you know? It’s just what I needed!
And to the rest of you, who have left such funny and endearing comments wishing me well as I enter this new decade: Thank you! From the bottom of my heart, I adore you all. I’m very fortunate to have such amazing friends and readers.
(and for those of you who have been betting against me on Facebook, HELLO! Day Nine and I’m still breathing!)
Dang, it’s been a week. I’ve been adjusting—sitting in bed, eating Sees Candy, and wishing Jillian Michaels laryngitis.
Ok, only part of that last sentence is true.
I’ve been meaning to come back and write the truth of turning forty, but you know how it goes. Right? And really, what do I know? Forty isn’t that much different from 39, it just sounds older. Although, I’m convinced there is a time-bomb in my DNA that alerted my system: HEY! She’s OLDer, go on the fritz and screw with her psyche a bit. I mean, seriously? Acne? And I don’t even want to talk about the 13 lb weight gain.
Ok, I don’t want to talk about it, but I will. I posted the photo to give you some idea. A close observer will notice I look a bit sleep deprived. I’m not. I just put on weight in my face. My chin and eyelids apparently have room for more fat. Who knew? Â You’ll also notice the, uh, boobage (as the ever so articulate men in my family call it.) Oh yeah, when Wende gains weight she gains it EVERYWHERE. Her face, her ass, her ankels (WTF?) and damn, girl, you’ve got boobs!
That should make me happy, right? And it would, if I didn’t bump into a third chin looking down to admire my new cleavage. You can’t win them all.
So, despite the great rack I’m sporting and exaggerating about, I’ve decided that it’s time. Time to really look over my habits and fix the problem. I had the great misfortune to visit the Doctor’s office the day after my birthday and well, that’s all I’m going to say about it. But it did convince me that if I want to get this weight off, I’m on my own and it’s time to call in qualified reinforcements.
Enter Jillian Michaels. I hate her.
Ok, that’s too strong, but really—she’s getting on my nerves. So, while I’ve been remiss at blogging, I have been  jumping jacking my newly acquired boobage right out of its exercise bra. Observant readers  and people on facebook who I’m spamming with updates will notice the new page (way up there, up, up, see it?) called “Dear Jillian“.  I’m keeping track of all my grievances against the ridiculously in shape Ms. Jillian. You know, in case I ever meet her. (Dear  Jillian, you might want to be thinking about a restraining order now. My name is spelled with 2 “e”s)
I’ve heard from a few of you that you have this stupid exercise tape and haven’t bothered to even take the shrink wrap off the darn thing. Um. If I’m suffering, you should be too. Consider this a kick in the pants to get moving. See, this way you can be snarky on your blog too. Write a Dear Jillian page and I promise to come and commiserate. We’ll start a revolution.
And speaking of commiseration, I apologize that the page won’t let you leave comments. It’s a template thing. And, sadly, my darling IZ is too flooded with real work to fix it. So, if you have something pithy to say or add well, write your own damn blog, er email me or comment anywhere.
So, summing up: Forty isn’t bad. Wende has boobs and a new-found nemesis and is flaming a revolution.
I’d say that’s a very good start to a new decade. Fan any flames, pour kerosine on any fires lately? Dish in the comments already!
I’ve been reading the biography of Anne Sexton this week. And after a little online research, bumped into this recording that I can’t stop playing. Anne’s All My Pretty Ones is blended beautifully with Peter Gabriel’s Mercy Street, which was inspired by Anne. It’s worth a listen to if you’re a fan of either poet.
You all make me smile. Thank you so much for your input on my lingerie quest. It was both informative and funny—and it made IZ blush, which is always a bonus!
I probably should have clarified. I am not looking for underwear, which my kind commonly call “Foundations”. Although, if I’m truthful, my foundation collection is even worse than my lingerie drawer. I once heard a comic tell a story about how his wife kept lamenting the mysterious loss of certain pairs of panties from her wardrobe. His response, “She doesn’t know it, but I keep throwing away the pairs I’m sick of seeing her in. . .” Ba dum dum! I only have to do a load of  “whites” to see his point; however, I draw the line at talking about my panties on this blog. Yes, yes there is a line, and we’ve found it. Let’s all just back away from that and pretend we didn’t notice.
No, Â I am on the hunt for pretty little things to, um, not sleep in. Â Although, if they’re comfortable enough for sleeping, all the better.(As if talking about this is any better than mentioning my “foundations”) You know, items that typically are hung on hangers with French names as pretty as the garment they describe: chemise, negligee, camisole, (can you name more?).
However, I’m extraordinarily picky on these matters. I’m allergic to silk. Yep. I know, how WRONG is that? But it’s true. No silk. No synthetics, I can’t breath in those. That’s in my head, but when you start to panic in your clothing it really doesn’t matter what is causing the reaction, it all equals mood killer. Oh, and I’d like these wonder garments to be comfortable and sexy and make me look like Cindy Crawford if the light is dim enough.
What? Too far on that last request?
I fear I’ve completely intimidated poor IZ on the matter. He won’t try, and who can blame him. My list of acceptable fabrics alone is enough to give a guy a permanent headache, and that’s exactly the opposite effect we’re going for here!
Valentine’s Day is quickly upon us and it has me thinking lingerie. Rummaging around in my underwear drawer is a total let-down. I’m starting to wonder how this odd assortment ended up in there. I keep it all wadded in a swirly pile so that I don’t have to admit most of it doesn’t fit. And what’s left over isn’t inspiring. Time to remedy this woeful situation.
A dash to my only options out here on the edge of the world left me deeply disappointed. Evidently, lingerie comes in two kinds. There’s the “Skanky, skivvy, what-the-heck-have-I-got-myself-into-this-isn’t-flattering-in-my-size- ho-liscious” lingerie. And then there’s the “Mother Theresa probably didn’t have sex, but she slept comfortably” (it’s a stretch to call it) Â lingerie. Neither is working for me. Lingerie should make you feel good about yourself, it should be comfortable and flattering so that you’re not fidgeting and preoccupied by it— and at the very least, it should be easy to slip out of! It should not, EVER, prompt the question, “What the bleep are you wearing?”
Why can’t I find sexy, soft, luxurious, but comfortable lingerie? I mean, something that’s pretty without being sticky sweet. Something that’s grown-up without being matronly. Something that’s sexy but still covers  my thighs? Something that plays to my assets but doesn’t have me (barely) covered in cheap neon pink acetate wondering if the seams will hold if we do, uh, that.
Because I do want to do that. And I want to look good doing it, and be comfortable while I’m at it. Is this too much to ask?
And it leaves me wondering if Julie Newmar had the right idea.
It was full sunshine this morning, although wispy clouds are quickly replacing it. So, we’re headed to the beach before a week of rain sets in. What are you doing today?
(pardon the flash photography–it was a grey, dark day)
The World’s Cutest Baby came for a visit this weekend. I’m guessing in the next 3 weeks he’s going to become the World’s Cutest Toddler, because he’s just promising to walk at any moment. We so enjoy getting a baby fix—and OUR baby had a blast showing this little wonder how to do things. It was just what we needed.
